


To land among the stars

by deliriumcrow



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Angst, Character sketches, Drabbles, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriumcrow/pseuds/deliriumcrow
Summary: Pretty much a collection of character sketches, vignettes, and things that had to be written down. Nothing is in game-order; it's in the order in which I write it. Title will probably change in time, but I am awful at naming thigs.Figures that, of all things, this is the game that makes me *actually start writing again*. It's been years, and many of them, so I'm *really* out of practice. Feel free to let me know if I've done something stupid (including grammar and punctuation). Or something good, that would be nice.Also, I use very blue language, but if you've played the game, it's nothing you haven't heard. If you haven't, why are you reading this?Spoilers spoilers everywhere. At least, eventually.





	1. Sketch 1

Ankaret and her father had always been close, where Scott was closer to their mother. Watching the man she idolised, the one who inspired her to turn to archaeology -- not that different from Pathfinding, sometimes -- suffocating in front of her was almost enough to throw her over the edge of reason. Knowing that he had sacrificed himself to ensure her survival made it infinitely worse -- he would still be alive were it not for her. Had she just been less clumsy, luckier, better, more. The guilt was almost worse than the mourning, most days, but that wasn't the sort of thing one could show and still look like a capable leader. She always had a stock of masks to hand for any occasion, though, just enough to hide behind so she could mourn within while someone else drove her body. The only time she felt whole was in battle, where there was no one to hide from, where she could indulge in her rage and hopelessness, the urges to scream and break things, to fling herself at danger and death. Shooting Kett was her punishment and her redemption, especially with Drack and Vetra by her side. They understood.


	2. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More in depth look at Ryder, dealing with her father's death. Maybe a little bit more healthy than dissociation and mayhem? 
> 
> Also, Jaal likes to give comfort, especially to people who are kind to him.

Ankaret had hunched herself into the corner of one of the couches in the comm room, holding a cup of cooling coffee between her hands. The rest of the small team was asleep, in preparation for the next drop. Perry perched on the back of the couch hooting softly, his tail draping down her shoulder. 

There was a quiet “shhhk” as one of the doors in the research area below slid open, and she curled farther in on herself, hoping not to be seen. This was her favorite place on the ship when she wanted to be alone but her bedroom walls were too close, where no one ever ventured without being called. Soft footsteps paced up the ramp, robbing Ankaret of any hope of remaining alone, and she braced herself for the intrusion. 

Jaal’s face emerged over the railing, and he gave her one of his many smiles. “Ryder! I thought you were asleep, like everyone else. What are you doing here?” 

She mustered a small smile of her own in greeting. “I -” _didn't want to be alone in a room laid out for my father_ “couldn't sleep. Too much to think about. You?” 

He laughed softly, and took the other end of her couch. “I, too, like to come here. You can see the stars -- the lab hasn't any windows, you see. And it is good, sometimes, to escape from everyone’s expectations.”

Ankaret's lips twisted wryly. “Yeah, I know a little about that.” She sipped her coffee, now nearly cold, and took a deep, unsteady breath, daring herself to push forward. If there was anyone in front of whom she could drop her masks, it was this man -- so open and free with his own emotions that they tugged her own out of hiding, willing or otherwise. “Hey, Jaal? You've shared some pretty heavy stuff with me. Would it -- would it be ok if I did the same, with you? Would that be weird?” She braced for the mockery she feared would be inevitable, but it never came.

Jaal turned to face her, round, flecked eyes serious. “Of course, Ryder, you may share with me whatever you choose. What is bothering you?” 

Ankaret was silent for a while, staring into the coffee cup. Her hair hung unbound between them, obscuring her view of everything but her knees and milky coffee. She spoke softly, hesitatingly. Now that she'd got this far, there wasn't any path back, but showing her true face to anyone but her father and Scott wasn't something she was used to anymore, and it was harder than she remembered. “So ... this wasn't supposed to be my job. My father was the Pathfinder, and he was good at it. He wasn't always good with people, and he wasn't always warm, but people would follow him almost instinctively. It was supposed to go to Cora, not me. I was just supposed to … I don't know, dig shit up. Help with understanding whatever cultures we found. I'm an anthropologist, for fucks sake, not a warrior!” She paused for a moment, drank more coffee to help regain some sense of calm. The cup was almost empty; she'd need a new pot soon. Jaal sat quietly, waiting for her to continue. “He'd planned this all along, never thought to tell us. Led Cora on, really. There's all these memories stored, things that are deeply personal and tied to SAM’s development and my family, and there's no way those were supposed to go to anyone outside of the family. Maybe he just didn't think he'd ever die and that he wouldn't have to tell us. 

“But then came Habitat 7, and if I’d just been a little less clumsy, a little stronger, a little luckier, maybe my helmet wouldn't have broken. He'd still be here. Instead, he gave up his helmet so I could breathe. I watched him fucking die, Jaal! I watched him suffocate right in front of me, and every day I think _it should have been me. It's my fault he's dead._ And every day, I sleep in the room that should have been his and wonder if I'm even remotely good enough to take his place. Everything we've accomplished feels like luck more than anything else, and -- I don’t know when it will run out. When I'll fall off another cliff and someone else will die. Everyone else is depending on me to be the Pathfinder and be strong and confident, and I feel like this weakness -- I'm letting them down. And worse, letting Dad down.” Ankaret placed the empty coffee cup on the table beside her, and lowered her head to her knees, tears seeping through her closed lids. She felt the couch shift, and the space beside her was suddenly full of warm, solid angaran. 

One massive arm wrapped around her back, drawing her tense form closer, and she leaned her head against his chest. His other arm draped lightly around her calves. “You are doing just fine, Ryder. Your father had his skills, you have your own. It was you I chose to follow -- your daring, your wisdom, your ill-timed jokes -- not your title, not your Initiative. I can't say whether I would have followed your father, or what kind of leader I would have found him to be. You are your own kind. That's as it should be.” She relaxed slightly, let one hand emerge from the ball she'd tucked herself into and laid it on his chest. He leaned his cheek against her hair, and continued talking, voice low and soothing, his hand tracing circles between her shoulder blades and coaxing them to relax. “I cannot imagine how it must have been to watch the death of a beloved parent, and to be completely helpless to stop it. I think of my True Mother, and --” he shivered, trailing off. “I think you are very strong, Ryder. To endure so much pain and not break is very strong indeed. But there is no reason for you to bear it alone. None of us would think any less of you. _I_ would never think less of you.” Ankaret was crying in earnest now, shaking against him as she tried and failed to hold it in. The missions had come so fast and so constant, she'd not had a chance to mourn properly. She wasn't even entirely certain where they'd put his body, or where it would be buried, or if it was still lying on Habitat 7. If she could wait until Scott woke to have the funeral. If Scott ever did wake -- no. He would. He had to. They were the last of the Ryders, he couldn't leave her alone. 

Jaal held her tighter, rocking slightly and murmuring soothing noises into her hair, one hand gently stroking her shoulder. “Dearest one, I have you. You are safe here. All will be well, my dearest Ryder.” She sighed slightly, wiping her eyes on the heels of her hands.

“I'm sorry, Jaal, I didn't mean to break like that --”

He turned her face towards his, holding her gaze. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You mourn your family, and you shouldn't have to do it alone. Do not feel guilty for having a heart, or for using it so strongly.” He chuckled slightly. “Perhaps you are more like the angara than you usually choose to show, yes?” 

She smiled, if somewhat wobbily. That didn't seem like such a bad thing, if this man was the result of a culture freer with their emotions than her own. “You know you can call me Ankaret, yeah? It's a little more personal. Seems only right, under the circumstances. What with your rofjinn soaked now and all …” He laughed again, a little more freely. 

“Aahn-kah-reht,” he said slowly, rolling each syllable as if to taste the sound. “Yes, I like it. It fits you much better than Ryder.” He hugged her tighter again. “Feeling better now, dearest?” She nodded against his chest, more comfortable and calm than she remembered being since leaving the Milky Way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lack of information about Alec after the fact was actually kind of distressing. I mean really, let me know if you just left him there? Do I have to rescue his body to give it a proper burial? Has it been cremated, can I release it I to the stars he loved so much? Can I throw it into the wind on one of the settlements that wouldn't even exist without him? It's rather cruel. Let my poor Ryder mourn priperly!


	3. A gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ankaret makes her own gift for Jaal, because you can never have too many hand made presents. (The only problem is making a good present when your materials are basically scavenged scrap.)

Jaal was so enthusiastic about the prospect of hand crafting personalised gifts for each of the crew, and his ideas were surprisingly well suited to each in spite of having known them for a short time. Perhaps facing death with them regularly bred a degree of familiarity not afforded by normal life, or perhaps he was just that observant. Not that the idea of giving Drack a special weapon was that far of a stretch, but the idea of giving poetry to a secret romantic like Vetra was simply beautiful. Ankaret wanted to return the favor, even knowing that he gave these gifts without expecting reciprocation. It had to be something personal, and she wanted it to be in some way from Earth. Materials for most things were hard to come by, but she had wires and pliers, and the beginnings of an idea.

It started with fine wire, twisted together with beads from a necklace whose plain cotton string had not survived the 600 year journey. Some wires were twisted with bits of broken circuitry, bone and pottery fragments, shards of Prothean relics from the digs she'd been on. The wires twisted into branches, and a trunk, and roots that wrapped around a rock she'd taken from the woods behind her home on Earth. The assorted odds and ends hung like tiny, many-colored leaves from each branch, each with its own story and history. She wrapped it in a piece of bright fabric she'd found on Kedara and set it on her desk to wait for the right time.

It finally came when they returned from Aya, Ankaret blushing when anyone asked how they enjoyed their time, Jaal looking incomparably smug. She took his hand and led him into her room, twining her arms around his neck as the doors slid shut. Standing on her toes, she pulled him down for a kiss as his hands traveled up her hips and around her waist, pressing her close. “I have something for you,” she whispered against his lips, drawing away from him. He reluctantly released her, following Ankaret to her desk. She held out the small fabric-wrapped package in both hands; he took it gingerly, as if it were the most fragile of offerings. The fabric fell away, revealing the shimmering tree. He cocked his head, looking at it curiously. “It is lovely, and I know it means something and that you probably made it, but … could you explain it to me?”

She huffed a soft laugh. Lacking context it wasn’t really the most obviously meaningful sort of gift, now that she thought about it. “I grew up in a place called New York. We lived on the side of a mountain, surrounded by forests. As a child I was always up a tree or the barn rafters, climbing everything I could reach, or digging up broken dishes that were buried by the people who lived there generations before.”

“So, exactly as you are now, I see.” He grinned, trying to imagine a tiny Ankaret with makeshift tools, dirty and scuffed from so much outdoors play.

She laughed. “Yes, very like. I had years of experience by the time i finally started school and training for actual archaeology. A few times I found enough shards to put a saucer together, another there was a hundred-and-some year old bottle that I used as a vase for wildflowers.” Ankaret paused, eyes closed, remembering the smell of the grass and the loamy soil, the flowers blooming beside her, the giant ferns that shaded her earliest dig site.

“Even as an adult, those woods were where I felt safest and happiest, and they were the hardest thing to leave behind. When we left to come to Andromeda, the last thing I looked for before heading into the mass relay and dark space was Earth. It hung there, so tiny and insignificant for that one last goodbye, all pale blue and green and gold wrapped in clouds. It looked … an awful lot like your eyes, really. You look like home, you feel like home, to me. So that's what this little tree is -- pieces of my home, and of myself, that I give to you. Every leaf has a story, and some day, you will hear them all.” She stroked his cheek, ghosting past the newly healed scar. “I love you, Jaal. I give you my roots, because yours have already grown around my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hated how dismissive Ryder sounded of Jaal’s gift giving ideas. Those are awesome! And OF COURSE giveing Murdergrandpa knives is the best idea. Same with a rofjinn for Liam, who ... would probably wear it for feeling heroic. And I mean, I make stuff. I give people hand-knits and other hand made goods, and I appreciate people who do that in turn. So … so does Ankaret.


End file.
